


He Plays the Violin

by RileyC



Category: Sherlock Holmes - Doyle
Genre: M/M, Romance
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-01-24
Updated: 2010-01-24
Packaged: 2017-10-06 16:00:57
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,818
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/55403
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/RileyC/pseuds/RileyC
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Holmes is working undercover as a street musician; later, at Baker Street, he treats Watson to a private concert.</p>
            </blockquote>





	He Plays the Violin

**Author's Note:**

  * Translation into Русский available: [Он играет на скрипке](https://archiveofourown.org/works/12127068) by [Little_Unicorn](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Little_Unicorn/pseuds/Little_Unicorn)



> Canon source: _The year '87 furnished us with a long series of cases of greater or less interest, of which I retain the records. Among my headings under this one twelve months I find an account of the adventure of the Amateur Mendicant Society, who held a luxurious club in the lower vault of a furniture warehouse..._ \- from **The Five Orange Pips**, by Sir Arthur Conan Doyle, in **The Adventures of Sherlock Holmes**.

Hesitating at the corner, Dr. John Watson gazed down the street where a young violinist, clearly experiencing a downward turn in his fortunes, was having some success charming the odd coin or two from passersby.

The figure presented exactly the right degree of a certain genteel shabbiness so as to invoke feelings of pity and sympathy. His threadbare clothes, battered old bowler and scuffed boots had clearly once been of the finest quality. Also, one could easily see that, given a decent shave and haircut, the impecunious young gentleman would not disgrace the city's most elegant drawing rooms.

As he coaxed a diversity of tunes from his violin -- a dazzling sonata of Paganini's, an Irish folk tune that bypassed maudlin sentimentality for a deeper poignancy that resonated long after the final notes had faded -- a stranger might wonder at the circumstances that had brought the violinist to such a lowly state.

Watson, however, as he drew closer, found himself more inclined to wonder how many times the man had performed in this fashion to display such a natural conviction in the role. He'd known him six years now, and there were just as many mysteries as at the beginning. Twenty years, Watson suspected, would find him still uncovering riddles.

Far more troubling, though, was having to confront his own blindness. In the face of such music, how could he have ever thought that the nature of this man was cold and machine-line? He had wanted to believe the impromptu concerts in their sitting room -- played for him alone -- were a revelation of what lay beneath a surface so controlled and precise, but he had dismissed such thoughts, suspecting himself of overindulging a romantic imagination.

As his friend had told him often enough, he had seen but he had not observed.

Most singularly unsettling of all was the minuscule twinge of jealousy he found himself experiencing, that all these strangers shared in what should have been for hime alone. Nor was Watson entirely certain _miniscule_ was the correct word.

Standing directly before the violinist now, Watson waited until grey eyes lifted to meet his, glittering with curiosity -- and not a little uncertainty. Sherlock Holmes was surprised. Sherlock Holmes wasn't entirely certain.

Unable to deny that he experienced a degree of satisfaction in that achievement, Watson tipped his hat and dropped a half crown into the shabby bowler.

Sherlock Holmes looked at the offering, looked back at Watson, and cocked a dark eyebrow that conveyed amusement, challenge, and pique.

Barely allowing himself a smile, Watson acquiesced and dug a sovereign from his pocket to add to his friend's ill-gotten gains.

With an air of satisfaction now, Holmes tucked the violin under his chin once more, beginning to play a particular favorite of Watson's. For a few moments, under the spell of the music -- and those grey eyes that remained locked upon his own -- he felt they might have been all alone there in the midst of London.

Then someone jostled against him and the spell was broken. But although it was masked in an instant, Watson glimpsed a flash of shared disappointment in Holmes' eyes that made his step lighter as he turned for home.

~*~

  
Resigned to dining alone, Watson was just lifting the cover off a dish of potatoes when he heard rapid footsteps coming up the stairs and, seconds later, Sherlock Holmes burst into their sitting room.

"Starting without me, Watson?" he asked, tossing the beat-up old bowler, now dotted with spots of rain, on a chair.

"It was looking unlikely for your return, Holmes. Any success?"

"Considerable, before the weather turned," Holmes said. To illustrate, he removed his coat and emptied the contents of the pockets onto their table, heedless of their clinking against Mrs. Hudson's china. A generous assortment of coins, and even a few pound notes as well, was indeed revealed.

"Yes, well, I meant with the case," Watson said, getting up from the table to go to poke up the fire.

"Ah, yes, there has been some progress on that front as well." Holmes plucked one sovereign from the tumble of coins and extended it across the table to Watson. "I believe this is yours, dear fellow."

Watson waved it away. "It was offered in true appreciation, Holmes. It's yours to keep."

Holmes gave him a thoughtful look, then nodded and set his violin case down on the sofa, extracting his precious Stradivarius. "You know, Watson," long, white fingers stroked the satiny wood, "I do believe this fiddle is one of the two best investments I ever made."

"Yes? And what is the other?" Watson asked, but his only reply was an enigmatic look accompanied by a smile that would not have shamed the Mona Lisa.

"Don't let me keep you from supper," Holmes said. "Just let me change out of these disreputable clothes and I shall join you shortly." He left the door of his bedroom ajar, however, as he bustled about getting changed, continuing their conversation. "As for the case, I still know nothing of the whereabouts of the Hon. Jocelyn Rawlings, but I believe I have made contact with a member of this Amateur Mendicant Society."

"So the rumors Lady Westabrook reported to us have some foundation?"

"It appears they do," Holmes said, reappearing and looking considerably more like himself, grey dressing gown thrown on over his clothes, and some attempt made to tidy his hair. "At least, I -- or my artistic alter ego, rather -- have been invited to a meeting tomorrow evening where I anticipate some illumination will be cast. Really, Watson, you're not eating. Perhaps you caught a chill in your solitary rambles about the city today?"

"I am quite well, Holmes," he said, helping himself to Mrs. Hudson's excellent roast beef. "And I was not engaged in any idle ramble."

"No?" Holmes lit a cigarette, "You came with intent, then?"

Confident his hesitation was too slight for notice, let alone that it gave anything away, Watson said, "I had some curiosity as to how your investigation was going, and as I was in the neighborhood--"

"In that neighborhood, doing what? If you don't mind my asking."

Watson met his eyes briefly. "Perhaps I do mind." After all, the only thing truly confirmed for him was Holmes's appearance of cool detachment was, in part at least, only another disguise.

"Ah." Holmes leaned back in his chair, puffing on the cigarette. "You'll forgive me, but this seems an odd time to start keeping secrets from me."

On ground so uncertain he scarcely knew where to take a step, Watson kept his eyes on his dinner plate, replying with a slight lift of his shoulders -- not quite concealing a wince at the dull ache in the left one. "Perhaps I have all along."

Tone thoughtful, Sherlock Holmes said, "Perhaps we both have, my dear Watson."

Chancing a look then, Watson could only discern that his friend's steps were just as wary and undecided as his own. The realization was rather less heartening that he might have expected.

~*~

  
"Are you in much pain?"

Watson shook his head, settled more comfortably against the sofa cushions. "It's a familiar ache by now."

Holmes nodded. "So it is," he murmured, as if to himself. Taking his usual chair and gazing into the fire, their curtains drawn against the cold and rainy night, he continued in the same manner. "There is, at least, a degree of comfort in the familiar."

Fairly certain they weren't talking about his wound, Watson said, "I suppose that's true. It is a reminder of what we have, and how much we risk losing, when change beckons."

Holmes shot him a quick look, a wistful longing showing so nakedly on his features that, for a flash, Watson felt his breath catch in his throat. "And if the price should seem too steep?"

His own heart soaring even as it hurt him to see his friend struggling so hard, Watson said, "Perhaps one would find his burden lessened by sharing it."

Grey eyes still troubled, Holmes nodded. "You may have the right of it, my dear Watson," he said, resting his violin across his knees.

As much as Watson wished to help him find a surer footing along this path, he knew there was little more he could do but wait.

He picked up his novel, but found the tale far less engrossing than Holmes's scraping on the violin. At first, it was scarcely a tune at all, but rather those abstract and formless notes of his own devising. After a few minutes, however, those sounds began to take on a more definitive structure -- as if the player's thoughts had cleared and a straight course of action was at last fully perceived.

All pretense of reading abandoned, Watson let his head fall back against the cushions, eyes drifting shut the better to absorb the beauty of the sound. He had felt envy at all those strangers made privy to this music, to this side of Sherlock Holmes? He could but marvel at his foolishness now. None but he would ever know _this_ music. The warmth of it, a passion and tender, yearning intimacy woven throughout, would fall on no ears but his own.

Eyes still closed, he heard Holmes moving, felt him very near, right behind him. So terribly afraid to startle him and frighten him away, Watson held himself absolutely still as the last note trailed away -- and he felt trembling fingers stroke his hair, come to rest on his shoulder and curl there as if to cradle long-ago injured flesh. Unable to remain motionless any longer, Watson reached up to cover that hand, press it firmly to him.

"John…" His name was whispered as though it were a treasured secret of incalculable worth.

Watson turned his head, brushed his lips against the tender inside of Holmes' wrist, feeling the pulse beating rapidly. Desire curled even more profoundly through him at the sharp, stunned gasp of pleasure his delicate caress provoked.

He kissed the palm, the slender fingers as the hand was slowly withdrawn, and though Sherlock Holmes resumed his violin in the next few moments, John Watson felt certain the night would yet reveal even more singular developments.

~the end~

 

==========================  
He plays the violin  
He tucks it right under his chin  
And he bows, oh he bows  
For he knows, yes he knows  
That it's hi-hi-hi-diddle diddle  
It's my heart, ~~Tom~~ Holmes and his fiddle  
My strings are unstrung  
Hi-hi-hi-hi  
I am undone

I hear his violin  
And I get that feeling within  
And I sigh, oh I sigh  
He draws near, very near  
And it's hi-hi-hi-diddle diddle  
Goodbye to the fiddle  
My strings are unstrung  
Hi-hi-hi-hi  
I'm always undone

For it was hi-hi-hi-hi-diddle diddle  
'Twixt my heart, ~~Tom~~ Holmes, and his fiddle  
And ever 'twill be  
Hi-hi-hi-hi  
Through eternity

He plays the violin.

\- from _1776_, by Peter Stone &amp; Sherman Edwards


End file.
